The Little Shop Of Hidden Treasures Publication Day
To celebrate the release of Part 1 of Holly Hepburn’s brand new series called ‘The Little Shop Of Hidden Treasures’, sit back and enjoy the first 2 chapters of the book.
It was the flamingo that first caught Hope Hendersonâ€™s eye.
Tall and proud and gloriously pink, it stood in the middle of the shop window demanding her attention. And it wasnâ€™t alone, she saw as she slowed down to take a closer look â€“ it had several feathery siblings, of varying heights and pinkness, and a grey and black heron loomed beside them, cleverly made from twisted metal. Above, a sign warned them to Mind The Gap.
Another pointed cheerily to the circus, although as far as Hope could tell, the arrow was aimed directly at an ancient flowery chamber pot. And above that was a framed vintage poster advertising a balloon race to Paris.
Hope stopped walking, fascinated both by the variety of stock and the lack of any apparent design. The shop occupied a corner slot, with two wide, arched windows on each side of the glossy yellow, angled door. A magnificent grey rocking horse dominated the window next to the flamingos, its shiny black mane glistening in the late-morning sunlight. One eye seemed to fix upon Hope as she stared and she was sure she could almost hear a whinny. She had always been drawn to the shop as a child, demanding a visit to peer into its windows whenever her family came into York. And as a student in London, she had spent too many Sunday afternoons wandering up and down Portobello Market, fantasizing about what she would buy if she had any money. This wasnâ€™t Portobello Road, though, and she was a long way from London; the gothic spires of York Minster peeking through a side street reminded her of that. She was home, after more than a decade away.
The shopâ€™s name, picked out in cherry red and adorned with gold leaf above the bright yellow woodwork, tugged at Hopeâ€™s imagination the same way it always had: The Ever After Emporium. How could anyone fail to be enchanted by a name like that, she wondered. Underneath the name, in smaller letters, were the words Purveyors of Treasure Great and Small. And beneath that, Est. 1902. Proprietor: James T. Young Esq.
Hope spent a few minutes gazing at the windows, marvelling at the mindboggling mix of items and oblivious to the crowds of late-spring tourists jostling along the pavements behind her. Only the chimes of the Minster bells roused her, ringing out quarter to twelve and reminding her it was time to meet her sister for lunch. With a final nostalgic glance into the Emporium, she stepped back and hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, preparing to walk away. And then she saw the advert.
Part-time Staff Required.
No Experience Necessary.
It was handwritten in a vibrant turquoise ink, and the extravagant loops and swirls of the cursive script suggested to Hope that the writer was the kind of person to imbue even the most practical things with a sense of style. For a moment, she was tempted to push open the door and go inside. She had never been allowed to go in when she was younger but there was nothing stopping her now. Besides, hadnâ€™t her family been suggesting for a while that she found a new job? It had been a few months since sheâ€™d taken redundancy, after all, and sheâ€™d been too busy with the sale of her home in London and the move north to think about what might come next. But they meant a proper job â€“ in an office, with people she could get to know over chats about their weekend and the boxsets theyâ€™d binged.
They didnâ€™t mean a part-time role in an antique shop, no matter how much sheâ€™d loved it as a child.
Reluctantly, Hope turned away from the Ever After Emporium and made her way through the cool and shaded Minster Gates alleyway towards the cathedral, where Charlotte would be waiting. Maybe she would pop back to the shop after lunch; there must be something inside she could buy to brighten her new apartment. And maybe sheâ€™d ask about the job too.
â€˜So, how have you been?â€™
To a casual observer, Charlotteâ€™s attention seemed to be fixed on spooning apple puree into her daughterâ€™s mouth faster than the toddler could spit it out but Hope wasnâ€™t fooled by her sister. Sheâ€™d seen the way Charlotteâ€™s gaze had sharpened as theyâ€™d greeted each other outside the Minster and that watchfulness hadnâ€™t dissipated as theyâ€™d strolled to Lucia in Swinegate Court and settled into their seats in the sun-dappled courtyard. Not even the cute waiter or the buzz of their fellow diners could distract her; sheâ€™d placed her order and resumed her barely concealed appraisal of Hope without missing a beat. It was the way Hopeâ€™s entire family regarded her and she knew that the details of how she looked and behaved today would be shared. Not in a gossipy or unkind way, but with love and concern and born from a desire to help. And Hope loved them all the more for it, even as she wished theyâ€™d accept her assurances that she was fine.
â€˜Iâ€™m all right,â€™ she replied, pushing some haddock puttanesca onto her fork. â€˜Starting to settle in. Iâ€™ve unpacked most of the boxes, at least.â€™
Charlotte glanced across the table, briefly, then focused on her toddler, Amber, once more. â€˜Youâ€™re still too thin. Are you eating?â€™
That was also a regular on the â€˜Is Hope Okay?â€™ bingo card. She lifted the forkful of haddock into her mouth and chewed. â€˜Yes, Iâ€™m eating,â€™ she said, once sheâ€™d swallowed. â€˜Getting my five a day and plenty of exercise. Staying off the drink and drugs.â€™
â€˜Glad to hear it,â€™ Charlotte said, and frowned. â€˜Although thereâ€™s no shame in taking anti-depressants, if you need them.â€™
Trust Charlotte to turn a flippant remark into a nudge about her mental health, Hope reflected. But it wasnâ€™t a surprise; sheâ€™d known how it would be if she moved back to York and subtlety had never been Charlotteâ€™s strong point. â€˜I know,â€™ she said softly and tried to catch her sisterâ€™s eye. â€˜Iâ€™m fine, Charlotte. Honestly, donâ€™t worry.â€™
Whatever Charlotte had been about to say next was lost as Amber blew a full-lipped raspberry, spraying apple puree across the wooden tabletop. The hubbub of the busy courtyard seemed to quieten a little and there was a brief silence around the table, punctuated by the toddlerâ€™s delighted giggles and a weary sigh from Charlotte. â€˜Itâ€™s a good job I chose the pork belly,â€™ she said, looking down at her plate.
â€˜At least apple goes with it.â€™
Raising her napkin, she started to remove globules of apple from the coppery fuzz that covered Amberâ€™s head. Hope took the opportunity to change the subject. â€˜I canâ€™t believe how much sheâ€™s grown. Last time I saw her she was barely crawling.â€™
Charlotte gave a wry nod. â€˜Thatâ€™s babies for you. I wish someone would invent clothes that grow with them.â€™
Hope grimaced in sympathy. Charlotte often grumbled that their older brother, Harry, had been inconsiderate enough to have two sons, with a third on the way, which meant very few hand-me-down outfits for Amber. â€˜Iâ€™m sure Mum is happy to help â€“ you know she loves shopping for the kids.â€™
â€˜She does,â€™ Charlotte agreed. â€˜And Iâ€™m very grateful. Itâ€™s just that Amber seems to grow overnight â€“ what fits her one day is too small the next and Iâ€™ve got so many things sheâ€™s only worn once. Iâ€™m keeping them all forâ€”â€™ She stopped and wiped her daughterâ€™s face, not looking at Hope. â€˜For whoever has the next baby.â€™
The unspoken words hung in the air. Harry and his wife had declared three boys was enough for any sensible parent and werenâ€™t planning any more children once the newest one arrived. Charlotte had been through a difficult pregnancy with Amber, which had culminated in an emergency caesarean, and had repeatedly said she never wanted to go through anything like it again. Logically, the baton to produce the next grandchild should be handed to Hope â€“ it was certainly the way sheâ€™d expected things to go when sheâ€™d married Rob five years earlier. Then the diagnosis had come and everything had fallen apart. And now she wasnâ€™t sure sheâ€™d ever get close to kissing another man, let alone doing what needed to be done to make a baby.
â€˜As long as itâ€™s not Joe,â€™ Hope said, keeping her tone light.
Joe was their nineteen-year-old brother â€“ a surprise arrival all those years ago â€“ who was currently in his first year of university in Edinburgh and widely considered to be a responsibility-free zone. Charlotte shuddered. â€˜Can you imagine? Heâ€™s still a baby himself.â€™
And that was the lot of many â€˜happy surpriseâ€™ kids, Hope supposed; Joe would always be the baby of the family, even if he had children of his own. She pictured him, his russet curls so like her own, albeit much shorter, and smiled. â€˜Heâ€™s a good lad. Heâ€™d cope.â€™
â€˜And heâ€™d have all of us to help.â€™
With a side order of meddling, Hope thought, hiding a grin. Sheâ€™d counted her family among her blessings a thousand times over the last few years, but there was no denying their well-meaning ministrations could also be a bit overwhelming.
â€˜Luckily, Joe is eminently sensible and knows all about the birds and the bees,â€™ she said mildly. â€˜I donâ€™t think youâ€™ll be handing over Amberâ€™s baby clothes any time soon, unless thereâ€™s someone in the village who needs them.â€™
Charlotte was quiet for a moment as she scraped the last of the puree from the container. â€˜Speaking of the village, I ran into Simon Wells last week. He asked after you.â€™
The sentence itself was innocuous enough and it was said in a tone that dripped innocence. But Hope was used to this game too. Simon Wells was an old schoolmate who lived in Upper Poppleton, where sheâ€™d grown up. The same village her parents and Charlotte still lived in, where everyone kept a friendly eye on their neighbours and asked after family members who might have moved away. It was perfectly possible that Simon had politely enquired how Hope was doing, especially since she was sure the whole population knew sheâ€™d moved back to York. But that wasnâ€™t what her sister meant. â€˜Charlotteâ€”â€™
â€˜Iâ€™m just saying,â€™ her sister said, wide-eyed. â€˜Heâ€™s a nice guy â€“ single and not too difficult to look at. You could meet him for a drink, chat about old times.â€™
â€˜Iâ€™m not interested in going on a date with him,â€™ Hope said flatly.
â€˜Okay,â€™ Charlotte said, unperturbed. â€˜I get that. How about online dating â€“ didnâ€™t you download Bumble?â€™
Hope swallowed a sigh. She had and the app had sat there on her phone, unopened and faintly accusing, until sheâ€™d deleted it. â€˜Iâ€™m not ready.â€™
Charlotte took a mouthful of cannellini beans and chewed with a meditative air, her gaze fixed on Hope. â€˜But you went on a few dates in London, didnâ€™t you?â€™ she said once sheâ€™d swallowed. â€˜I know these dating apps are a bit hit-and-miss but was it so awful that they put you off meeting anyone entirely?â€™
Hope fought the urge to shake her head and instead watched the summer sun play on the amber sandstone walls of the courtyard.
Sheâ€™d been up for dating at first â€“ not exactly enthusiastic but willing to accept that after eighteen months it might be time to start living her life again and knowing she had to start somewhere. And one or two of the dates had gone well, leading to second and third dates. Sheâ€™d allowed one of them to kiss her, a guy called Matt, and it hadnâ€™t felt awful. Just odd, as though it was happening to someone else. On their next date sheâ€™d opened up about her relationship history and the ground had suddenly shifted. Heâ€™d listened in horrified sympathy, had rallied for the remainder of the date, and then simply stopped replying to her messages. Next had been Adam, whoâ€™d puffed out a long breath on their second date and said he wasnâ€™t sure he was ready to be the man who followed Rob.
Sheâ€™d begun to gloss over the subject after that, giving vague answers that hinted at a failed marriage, and then cried into her pillow when she got home because it felt wrong to pretend. And, eventually, she decided her heart had been bruised enough. She hadnâ€™t dated since.
â€˜Iâ€™m just not ready,â€™ she told Charlotte again and then sought something to soften the words. â€˜I want to get myself settled here first, find my feet and spend some time rediscovering the city. Maybe look for a job.â€™
Charlotteâ€™s face lit up. â€˜Thatâ€™s a great idea. I saw something the other day that would be perfect for you â€“ good money with a decent companyâ€”â€™ she said animatedly, then seemed to notice Hopeâ€™s expression. â€˜But Iâ€™m sure you know what youâ€™re looking for.â€™
That was half the trouble, Hope thought. She had no idea what she was looking for. Except for an unspoken desire to get away from who she had been before, to try something new. Her mind strayed back to the looping turquoise ink on the advert in the Ever After Emporiumâ€™s window and she felt something flutter deep inside her, a tiny ripple of something that might have been excitement.
She smiled at Charlotte. â€˜Havenâ€™t a clue,â€™ she said, as a burst of optimism warmed her heart. â€˜But Iâ€™m hoping Iâ€™ll know when I see it.â€™
A bell rang as Hope pushed open the door of the antique shop.
It didnâ€™t tinkle, as shop bells usually did; this sound was deeper, almost too loud, and she wasnâ€™t sure if she imagined the hum of vibration as the ringing died away. Glancing up, she saw a large, perfectly polished brass bell coiled inside an ornate framework over the door.
â€˜Sorry about that.â€™ A rich, broad Yorkshire accent cut through the dust motes dancing in the disturbed air and caused Hope to look around to see who was speaking. â€˜Our bell once adorned the door of Figgis and Blacks in Mayfair. Iâ€™m afraid it has delusions of grandeur.â€™
A man rose from behind an old-fashioned dark oak counter, a cardboard box in his hands. He had an abundance of neatly combed white hair, with a pair of golden wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, and wore a tweed jacket that was certainly vintage, if not quite antique. His appearance was somehow familiar and strange at the same time and Hope knew that if sheâ€™d been challenged her to come up with someone who looked like they might own an antique shop, she would probably have described the man before her now, gazing at her with an enquiring expression.
â€˜Is there something in particular I can help you with?â€™ he asked, placing the box on the counter. â€˜Something youâ€™re looking for? Or would you prefer to browse?â€™
Now that it came down to explaining that she was interested in the job, Hope felt a little of her confidence drain away. Was she crazy to be even thinking about working there?
â€˜I suppose Iâ€™m looking for Mr Young,â€™ she said slowly, fighting the urge to seize the ready-made excuse and spend a happy twenty minutes wandering around the shop.
â€˜Then youâ€™re in luck.â€™ He smiled and held out a hand. â€˜Iâ€™m James Young, owner of the Ever After Emporium. Welcome!â€™
Too late to back out now, Hope thought as she walked forwards to shake his outstretched hand. â€˜Hope Henderson. Itâ€™s about the advert in the window. For the part-time assistant.â€™
If he was surprised, he didnâ€™t show it. â€˜Of course. Would you like to hear more about the role?â€™
She nodded and felt her apprehension ease. He hadnâ€™t laughed, that was a good start. Although that might follow when she revealed her total lack of relevant experience. â€˜Yes, please.â€™
â€˜Why donâ€™t we start with a quick tour? I can fill you in on the way round.â€™
He raised a solid-looking flap in the counter and pulled back a carved door panel beneath to make his way out to stand beside her. She noticed an understated forest green waistcoat beneath the tweed jacket and caught the gleam of gold at waist height. Of course, Hope thought, almost nodding to herself. Of course he has a pocket watch.
â€˜It sounds grand, describing it as a tour, but the Emporium is bigger than it looks from the outside,â€™ Mr Young went on, waving a hand that took in the full length and breadth of the shop, spanning the two sets of windows on either side of the door. â€˜Thereâ€™s another room through the back where the books are kept, and a small kitchen, plus the storerooms upstairs.
Over the years Iâ€™ve experimented with trying to organize the stock into eras but people seem to prefer a more higgledy-piggledy approach.â€™
Which explained the gloriously mismatched window displays, Hope mused. â€˜I suppose they donâ€™t always know what theyâ€™re looking for â€“ browsing and discovering a hidden treasure is half the fun.â€™
Mr Youngâ€™s eyes gleamed. â€˜Exactly so. Besides, Iâ€™m not totally sure the shop doesnâ€™t rearrange itself overnight. It would certainly solve one or two mysteries.â€™
His voice was so matter of fact that Hope wasnâ€™t sure he was joking. But he didnâ€™t elaborate. Instead, he pointed to an aisle that ran parallel to the window with the flamingos. â€˜Weâ€™ll start this way.â€™
Hope followed, hardly believing she was inside the Ever After Emporium. The shop was blessedly cool, a welcome relief on a warm April afternoon, and she realized sheâ€™d expected it to be gloomy, like something from a Dickensian novel. But it wasnâ€™t like that at all; the natural light from the windows was perfectly complemented by discreet modern spotlights in the ceiling, bathing everything on display in a clean silvery light. Her attention was instantly caught by an exquisite bone china tea set laid out on an occasional table to their right.
Delicate yellow and pink roses wound their way around the teapot and cups, spilling across the saucers and plates and climbing around the milk jug and sugar bowl. She let out a delighted puff of appreciation as she stopped to stare.
Mr Young glanced over his shoulder. â€˜Beautiful, isnâ€™t it? Itâ€™s Wedgwood, you can tell from the quality but the three-letter code on each piece removes any doubt. This particular set dates back to 1934.â€™
She had been about to reach out to lift one of the teacups but withdrew her hand hurriedly. If she dropped it, the interview would be over before it had even begun and sheâ€™d have to buy the set, broken cup and all. This must be why she hadnâ€™t been allowed inside the shop as a child; she was less likely to break something now but decided it was best not to take any chances and thrust her hands into her pockets.
â€˜Over here, we have a pair of chairs by Charles Rennie Mackintosh,â€™ Mr Young continued. â€˜Beside them, youâ€™ll see a working gramophone but thatâ€™s not for sale. There are a few items like that â€“ marked with a red dot and just for display.
Production companies sometimes get in touch to enquire about hiring things and the gramophone is popular.â€™
Again, Hope made sure she stayed in the centre of the aisle as she followed him, but her gaze flicked left and right as they walked. A glossy grandfather clock ticked to one side, its walnut case burnished to a mirror-like gleam, and she was tempted to stop and study the sunlit ship sailing sedately through a wedge-shaped panel in the ivory clock face. It reminded Hope of the one Robâ€™s grandmother had kept; she had always insisted it would come to him, when she died, never dreaming for a moment that sheâ€™d outlive her grandson. Hope pushed the memory aside and forced herself to focus on the here and now. The shop was everything sheâ€™d imagined it would be, a treasure trove of delights, and she longed to linger over some of the things Mr Young led her past. If she didnâ€™t get the job, sheâ€™d certainly be back to browse. Possibly every day.
â€˜The position is for twenty hours a week, Monday to Friday, with the occasional weekend to cover the other staff,â€™ Mr Young said. â€˜Iâ€™m fairly flexible and happy to work around family commitments, if you have them.â€™
He waited and Hope thought of her too quiet apartment. â€˜No commitments,â€™ she said with what she hoped was a brisk smile.
â€˜The work is mostly customer-facing on the shop floor but thereâ€™ll be a bit of inventory and record-keeping when things are quiet. We offer generous annual leave, on-the-job training and a competitive salary, plus thereâ€™s a staff discount scheme.â€™ He led her through a crooked wooden doorway into a softly lit square room. â€˜This is where we keep the books.â€™
The breath caught in Hopeâ€™s throat as she stepped inside. It was the kind of room every book lover dreamed of; the walls were lined from ceiling to floor with shelves, and every shelf was filled by spines of all colours and sizes. The walls on her left had glass doors on the top half of the shelves â€“ some of the books inside were wrapped in clear covers and she assumed they were valuable first editions. To her right, she saw a mahogany ladder that rolled parallel to the stacks, giving access to the upper shelves. The air was heavy and still, filled with the unmistakeable scent of old paper, old print, old words. She inhaled deeply, drinking it in, and allowed herself a contented sigh. The Emporium held more treasure than sheâ€™d ever imagined.
â€˜Are you a reader?â€™ Mr Young asked, and Hope realized heâ€™d been watching her reaction closely.
â€˜Absolutely,â€™ she replied and her eyes wandered to the shelves again. â€˜Anything and everything.â€™
He nodded. â€˜Weâ€™ve a number of excellent first editions here, including a wonderful Pride and Prejudice and a mint copy of Bram Stokerâ€™s Dracula.â€™ His eyes twinkled. â€˜As well as some lesser-known classics â€“ are you familiar with A History of British Carpets by C.E.C. Tattersall?â€™
She hesitated, once more unsure whether he was joking. â€˜Er . . . not really.â€™
Mr Young laughed. â€˜Consider yourself lucky. But you never know, one day a historical carpet enthusiast might walk into the shop and weâ€™ll have exactly what theyâ€™re looking for.â€™
Hope looked more closely at the nearest shelf, imagining herself opening a worn leather cover, turning the age-tinted pages and breathing in their distinctive smell. If she hadnâ€™t been in love with the Ever After Emporium before, she was now. Although she was beginning to suspect that if she worked there, sheâ€™d have very little of her wages left at the end of the month, in spite of the staff discount Mr Young had mentioned.
â€˜The first floor is home to the store rooms and the office and the second floor is home to me,â€™ he said as they left the book room and continued to the last corner of the shop, where he paused beside an ornate dark wood staircase marked Staff Only. â€˜But Iâ€™m sure you must have questions. Is there anything you want to know?â€™
Hope cast her mind back to her last job application, some seven years earlier. It had been a well-paid, responsible position and had therefore involved a lengthy and stressful process. She was sure thereâ€™d be no psychometric testing for this role but it would be useful to know what she could expect. â€˜Do you know when the interviews might be?â€™ she asked.
He shook his head, causing Hope to immediately assume he hadnâ€™t been planning to interview her at all. But he surprised her. â€˜Weâ€™re not big on formality here. I find it often works better to have a nice chat. A bit like the one weâ€™re having now.â€™
â€˜Oh,â€™ Hope exclaimed, wrong-footed again. â€˜Iâ€™m sorry, I didnâ€™t realize.â€™
Mr Young waved a hand apologetically. â€˜My fault â€“ I should have explained. But now that youâ€™ve had a look round and got a rough idea of what the job entails, are you still interested?â€™
The Emporium was everything sheâ€™d anticipated and more, Hope thought, remembering the delicate floral tea set, the arching chairs and, most of all, the room full of books. And then she recalled how little she knew about any of them. â€˜Yes, Iâ€™m interested, but . . . â€™ She trailed off, filled with certainty that she was wasting both their time. â€˜Look, Iâ€™ll be honest â€“ I used to pass this shop when I was growing up and always loved looking in the windows. And seeing the advert today reminded me of that. But I have to admit I donâ€™t know anything about antiques.â€™
Mr Young studied her for a moment. â€˜Iâ€™m not necessarily looking for someone who knows the business. I like to think Iâ€™m pretty good in that department.â€™
Hope puffed out a breath. â€˜I donâ€™t really have any shop experience, either.â€™ She offered him a self-conscious grimace. â€˜Sorry, I shouldnâ€™t have troubled you.â€™
â€˜Itâ€™s no trouble,â€™ he replied easily. â€˜Truth be told, Iâ€™ve never been one for judging people solely by their CV and qualifications and it sounds like the shop has been calling you for a long time â€“ you just didnâ€™t know it. So how about a different approach? Why donâ€™t you choose an object â€“ anything you like â€“ and tell me about it.â€™
Confusion swirled in Hopeâ€™s brain. Hadnâ€™t she just explained she knew nothing about antiques? â€˜Butâ€”â€™
He gave her an encouraging smile. â€˜I donâ€™t mean the manufacturer or provenance or anything like that. Just have a look round, find something that speaks to you, and tell me its story. Whatever you think that might be.â€™
Immediately, Hopeâ€™s thoughts flew to the book room, where hundreds of stories were patiently waiting to be told. But she knew it would be cheating to choose one of those; Mr Young wanted something that came from her, from her own imagination.
The trouble was, now that she needed it her mind had gone completely blank. Mr Young waited â€“ it felt to Hope as though the whole shop was waiting â€“ and the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock seemed impossibly loud in the silence, although she worried her thudding heart might give it some competition. Taking a deep breath, Hope forced herself to remember the items that had caught her eye. The Wedgwood tea set had been first â€“ she could imagine that being used to serve afternoon tea in the parlour of a well-to-do 1930s house . . . Hope frowned. No, not a wealthy family, perhaps one that didnâ€™t have much money but saved what they could and used the tea set on special occasions. And then there was the gramophone â€“ she could almost hear it playing at a wartime tea dance, with that distinctive faint crackle as the needle travelled along the groove. But although she could picture both items being used, neither gave her anything more â€“ a story she could tell. She felt the hot rush of failure burn her cheeks and was about to shake her head when her gaze fell on the clock again. Rob had once told her that, as a child, heâ€™d believed his grandmotherâ€™s clock hid a secret door leading to another world.
â€˜Like the wardrobe that goes to Narnia,â€™ heâ€™d said with a self-deprecating head shake. â€˜I must have been reading the books.â€™
â€˜Did you ever find it?â€™ Hope had asked, and heâ€™d smiled.
â€˜Would you believe me if I said yes?â€™
That had been the moment sheâ€™d known she loved him â€“ really loved him â€“ and his refusal to elaborate, because heâ€™d sworn an oath never to reveal the secret, only delighted her more. And now, listening to the tick of the clock in this quirky, magical shop, she could half-believe that all grandfather clocks hid doors to other worlds. Here was a story she could tell, although she doubted sheâ€™d do it justice.
Taking a moment to calm her racing heart, she gathered her thoughts. â€˜Iâ€™d like to tell you about the clock,â€™ she began, clearing her throat. â€˜It was made centuries ago for a duke and duchess and stood in the hallway of a grand house for many years, although they never really noticed it until it was gone. Even then, it was the absence of the tick they noticed, which was a great shame, because the clock had a secret that might have changed their lives.â€™
Hope paused and risked a glance at Mr Young but he gave no indication whether this was what heâ€™d been expecting. Instead, he tipped his head to indicate she should continue.
â€˜The clock was given to a boarding school, where it stood for many years, watching children hurry past on their way to and from classes. Until one day, a child didnâ€™t hurry past. This child stopped and studied the clock. That evening, at midnight, he crept downstairs when everyone else was asleep and lifted the hook at the side of the door.â€™
Now when Hope looked at Mr Young, she thought she detected a spark of interest in his expression. â€˜Inside the clock, the child found another doorway â€“ one that led him to a world of adventure and enchantment.â€™ She hesitated and swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. â€˜And when he ran out of time in this life, far sooner than anyone expected, he breathed his last breath without sadness or complaint, knowing heâ€™d lived a thousand lives in the world through the clock.â€™
The words seemed to hang in the air for an age as Mr Young regarded Hope steadily. â€˜Wonderful,â€™ he said at last, with the gentlest of smiles. â€˜Just wonderful. When can you start?â€™
One month later
It had been raining for three days. Hope watched rivulets of water cascade from the awning over the floristâ€™s shop opposite the Ever After Emporium and sighed. The River Ouse was fuller than normal for the time of year and the Foss seemed higher too. If it didnâ€™t stop raining soon, Hope thought she might actually need the faded orange and white lifebuoy that was propped against a battered shipâ€™s chest opposite the counter. In fact, it was just possible they might need to drag the Noahâ€™s ark from the window display.
High Petergate was uncharacteristically empty of its usual horde of May tourists, although Hope knew they were rarely deterred for long. The occasional car splashed through the puddles and any pedestrians who had braved the deluge hurried along with their heads hidden by umbrellas or tucked inside hoods. No one was stopping to gaze into the windows of the Ever After Emporium, let alone come inside. It was the quietest Thursday morning Hope had experienced since sheâ€™d started work there three weeks earlier and she was starting to wonder whether sheâ€™d see a single customer before lunch. Of course, it meant she had plenty of time to study the book Mr Young had given her on Victorian furniture but although she was keen to learn, it wasnâ€™t the most engrossing read sheâ€™d ever picked up.
The Minster chimed outside, accompanied by the faint call of the cuckoo clock that hung on a wall deeper inside the shop, and Hope saw the time was 11.15. Stretching her arms over her head, she bookmarked the page and considered making a cup of tea. Mr Young was in the store rooms upstairs, undertaking some restoration work with a local craftsman, but she didnâ€™t want to disturb him. Surely it would be fine to leave the till unattended for a few minutes while she nipped into the tiny kitchen tucked away beneath the curving staircase at the rear of the shop . . .
No sooner had she clicked the kettle on than the bell above the door jangled. Swallowing a huff of disbelief, Hope dropped the teabag she held into a cup and hurried back to the shop floor. A man stood in front of the door, his umbrella dripping onto the mat. Beside him was a blonde-haired little girl of around four or five, dressed in a bright yellow raincoat, with yellow wellington boots.
â€˜Good morning,â€™ she said, smiling. â€˜Thereâ€™s an umbrella stand by the door if youâ€™d like to use it.â€™
The man looked up as she approached but the childâ€™s eyes stayed firmly downcast. â€˜Thanks,â€™ he replied. â€˜Although Iâ€™m bound to forget it on the way out.â€™
She watched as he slotted the folded umbrella into the stand. â€˜Donâ€™t worry, Iâ€™ll remind you. Is there anything in particular youâ€™re interested in or would you prefer to browse?â€™
His gaze flickered to the little girl as he wiped the rain from his fingers. â€˜Brodie was very taken with the rocking horse in your window. And the flamingos next door.â€™
Hopeâ€™s smile deepened. â€˜Ah, the flamingos are my favourites too,â€™ she said, trying to catch the girlâ€™s eye. â€˜Would you like a closer look?â€™
But Brodie didnâ€™t look up or respond. Instead, one yellow-booted foot turned inwards to rub against the other.
â€˜I think sheâ€™d like that very much,â€™ the man said, moving away from the doorway and into the aisle that led deeper into the shop. â€˜Thank you.â€™
Hope lifted the counter and slipped through the gap to join them. â€˜I hope theyâ€™re going to behave themselves,â€™ she said gravely. â€˜Last time I took someone to meet them they caused a dreadful hullaballoo.â€™
This time she did get a reaction but it wasnâ€™t the one sheâ€™d anticipated. Rather than laugh, Brodie moved closer to her fatherâ€™s leg and hid her face. He threw Hope an apologetic look. â€˜She takes things a bit literally, Iâ€™m afraid.â€™ He dropped down to the childâ€™s level and spoke in a soothing voice. â€˜Itâ€™s okay, the lady was only joking. The flamingos arenâ€™t going to hurt you.â€™
Hope shook her head in dismay. â€˜No, they absolutely wonâ€™t. I was being silly â€“ Iâ€™m sorry.â€™
This met with silence, although a tell-tale wobble of the shoulders suggested it wouldnâ€™t last long, and Hope felt a scarlet flush of consternation start to creep across her cheeks. Any minute now the child was going to burst into tears and it would be all her fault.
â€˜Iâ€™m really sorryâ€”â€™ she began, as the man straightened up and looked around.
His gaze came to rest on a small North African puzzle box that sat on the counter beside the till. â€˜Look, Brodie, itâ€™s a secret keeper,â€™ he said. â€˜Like the one Grandma has.â€™
He glanced at Hope, as if asking permission to pick it up, and she hesitated. The polished cedarwood puzzle box was one of the items that wasnâ€™t for sale â€“ Mr Young had given her a list and reminded her that a red dot meant â€˜Do Not Sellâ€™. But it wouldnâ€™t hurt to let Brodie look at it, would it? Especially since the box didnâ€™t open. Little fingerprints could be polished away and no one would be any the wiser. â€˜Go ahead,â€™ she said.
Brodieâ€™s focus changed the moment her father held out the box. She let go of his leg and took it, stretching her small hands around the ornate cube and tilting it this way and that. A faint rattle from inside seemed to catch her attention and she raised the box to her ear, shaking it gently. A moment later, she sat cross-legged on the floor and began to probe the carved cedarwood surface with deft fingers.
Disaster apparently averted, the man relaxed and studied Hope with fresh curiosity. â€˜Youâ€™re new here, arenâ€™t you?â€™
She nodded. â€˜Yes, I started a few weeks ago. Look, Iâ€™m really sorry for upsetting your daughter. I was just trying to be friendly.â€™
An odd look crossed his face and Hope cringed inside, wondering if sheâ€™d made another faux pas. But then he glanced down at the girl, engrossed in the puzzle box, and he offered Hope a wry smile. â€˜No harm done. Brodie is â€“ well, I suppose you might say sheâ€™s sensitive.â€™ He held out his hand. â€˜Iâ€™m Will Silverwood. I own Silverwoodâ€™s jewellery shop, over in the Shambles.â€™
Something in the way he spoke suggested there was more to Brodieâ€™s reaction than simple sensitivity. For a split second, Hope was tempted to ask what he meant but it wasnâ€™t really any of her business. She shook his hand instead. â€˜Hope Henderson. Pleased to meet you.â€™
His fingers were still cool from the rain and the skin felt the tiniest bit rough against hers. But it was his smile that really caught her attention â€“ the kind that was so warm it was like coming in from the cold on a frosty day. She liked the way it made his eyes crinkle at the edges, as though she was an old friend he hadnâ€™t seen for ages. His eyes were nice too, she decided â€“ hazel, framed with generous lashes â€“ and he had good hair, golden brown with a hint of curl, although it was touching the collar of his coat and looked in need of a trim.
Will cleared his throat, a gentle, barely there sound that brought Hope back with a jolt. With an icy rush of horror, she realized sheâ€™d been staring dreamily at him for an embarrassingly long time. And worse â€“ so much worse â€“ she was still holding his hand. â€˜Sorry,â€™ she said, letting go as though his fingers had burned her. â€˜I didnâ€™t mean to â€“ Iâ€™m so sorry!â€™
â€˜Donâ€™t apologize,â€™ he said, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. â€˜Iâ€™ve been known to daydream mid-conversation too. I like to think itâ€™s the sign of a creative mind.â€™
His generosity made Hope cringe even more, because she hadnâ€™t been daydreaming, sheâ€™d been â€“ what, exactly? Not perving, she thought with an inward shudder, but definitely . . . admiring. And that wasnâ€™t something she wanted to admit to a total stranger â€“ to a customer, no less. â€˜Ha ha,â€™ she said weakly. â€˜Iâ€™ll have to remember that for the next time I â€“ er â€“ drift off.â€™
â€˜Itâ€™s a useful explanation,â€™ he agreed. â€˜So what brings you to the Emporium? Have you always worked in antiques?â€™
Praying she didnâ€™t look as flustered as she felt, Hope wondered how to reply; admitting sheâ€™d applied for the job on a whim would make her seem even flakier than she already appeared and it was hardly a professional response. â€˜Iâ€™ve always had an interest in old things,â€™ she answered, choosing her words with care. â€˜And who could resist the opportunity to spend every day somewhere like this?â€™
â€˜Not me,â€™ Will said. â€˜Or Brodie, for that matter.â€™
They both glanced down at the girl, who was still absorbed in her task. â€˜Iâ€™m afraid the box isnâ€™t for sale,â€™ Hope said. â€˜Itâ€™s a bit of an enigma â€“ no oneâ€™s been able to work out how to open it.â€™
He nodded. â€˜My mother has one. I remember spending hours trying to get into it and was ready to take a hammer to it until my brother revealed the secret.â€™
â€˜A few impossible-to-detect sliding panels and cleverly hidden compartments,â€™ he replied. â€˜But each box is individually crafted â€“ what opens one wonâ€™t work on another. They wouldnâ€™t be much good for keeping secrets if they all worked in the same way.â€™
Hope smiled and felt the last vestiges of embarrassment fade away. â€˜Well, this one seems set to keep its secrets forever. I donâ€™t think Mr Young would appreciate us taking a hammer to it.â€™
Will laughed and Hope decided she liked that too. They stood for a moment, smiling at each other, until the bell over the door jangled again and a tall woman with a hood over her eyes hurried inside. â€˜Hells bells, Hope, is it ever going to stop raining?â€™
She paused in the doorway, shaking down her hood to reveal a mane of lustrous dark hair as she took in the scene. â€˜Oops, I didnâ€™t realize you had a customer.â€™ And then her expression lit up. â€˜Oh, but itâ€™s only Will. I donâ€™t have to mind my manners after all.â€™
Hope had to swallow a grin; sheâ€™d met Iris on her second day at the Ever After Emporium, when the florist had hurried across the road and begged to borrow an Art Deco vase for the Blooming Dales window display. From that first whirlwind encounter, Hope had formed the distinct impression that Iris wasnâ€™t really one for observing the social rules that governed most peopleâ€™s behaviour. She was forthright and bold, wore scarlet lipstick and winged eyeliner as though she woke up that way every day, and had the kind of irrepressible smile that hinted she might bubble up into laughter at any moment. Hope had warmed to her immediately and thought she might be on her way to making her first new friend in York. It wasnâ€™t surprising that Iris would know Will â€“ Hope got the impression that there was a real sense of community within the ancient walls that surrounded the cityâ€™s heart. There was probably a tradersâ€™ association, where the glamorous florist must turn heads and steal hearts in equal measure.
â€˜Not just me,â€™ Will said, shifting slightly so Iris could see the child at his feet.
â€˜Oh,â€™ she breathed, walking towards them. â€˜This must be Brodie.â€™
â€˜It is,â€™ he replied. â€˜So, minding of manners is definitely still required.â€™
Not that Brodie was paying any of them the least bit of attention. She was still poking and prodding at the box, turning it over and over in her small hands, and Hope could almost feel the girlâ€™s determination to solve the riddle. But the secret had eluded all the adults of the Ever After Emporium â€“ was it possible that a child would succeed where they had failed? Hope pictured her nephews and their boisterous, exuberant approach to play; the box would have been discarded in favour of a football within seconds. But Brodie was entirely different â€“ all her concentration was focused on the job and she seemed to be enclosed in her own little world. It was remarkable.
â€˜How is she coping?â€™ Iris asked, lowering her voice. â€˜More to the point, how are you coping?â€™
Will smiled but this time it didnâ€™t reach his eyes. â€˜Oh, you know. Taking it one day at a time.â€™
Wary of being caught staring again, Hope let her own gaze drift around the shop as she wondered about the exchange. Thereâ€™d been sympathy in Irisâ€™s tone and sadness in Willâ€™s. Hope recognized the vagueness of his reply too, using the sort of words she had when sheâ€™d needed to politely fend off well-meaning enquiries after Robâ€™s death. A failed marriage, perhaps, and all the heartache and adjustments that brought. It would certainly explain the way Iris was watching Will, as though he might break at any moment. Hope was familiar with that look as well, although thankfully not from Iris or anyone else in York, apart from her family. Sheâ€™d told Iris she was single, when the florist had asked what her partner did, and then deflected the conversation onto safer ground. Another coping mechanism.
â€˜Howâ€™s business?â€™ Will asked, glancing at Blooming Dales through the rain-speckled window. â€˜I suppose the flowers donâ€™t mind the wet weather.â€™
â€˜They might not but I do,â€™ Iris said, wrinkling her nose. â€˜Walk-in trade is down this week â€“ itâ€™s a good thing weâ€™ve got plenty of wedding orders to keep us busy.â€™
His eyes drifted to Brodie once more. â€˜Your windows always look so amazing. Maybe weâ€™ll pop in and pick up a bouquet for home, to remind us itâ€™s almost summer.â€™
Iris dipped her head. â€˜I could deliver it, if you like, save you having to carry it in this rain. Do you have a favourite flower, Brodie?â€™
That got the little girlâ€™s attention. She raised her blonde head to study Iris, then flicked her gaze towards the window.
Hope thought she understood. â€˜Pink, like the flamingos?â€™
Brodie gave a shy nod.
â€˜Flamingo pink,â€™ Iris repeated approvingly. â€˜Very nice. Iâ€™m thinking gerbera, roses and maybe some alstroemeria. Tall and graceful, just like the birds.â€™
Will gave her a helpless look. â€˜They wonâ€™t look graceful if I have to arrange them. Do they come in a vase?â€™
Iris winked at Brodie. â€˜Iâ€™ll take care of everything. All youâ€™ll have to do is put the bouquet into water.â€™
â€˜I can probably manage that,â€™ Will said. â€˜With Brodieâ€™s help, obviously.â€™
â€˜Then how does a Saturday morning delivery sound?â€™ Iris asked. â€˜You can drop me a message later with the address for delivery.â€™
â€˜Sounds like the perfect way to start the weekend,â€™ Will said. â€˜Thanks, Iris. This is very kind of you.â€™
The florist waved away his thanks. â€˜Itâ€™s no trouble. I deliver all over the city â€“ have bike, will travel.â€™
Hope blinked as she tried to build a mental picture. â€˜You deliver flowers by bike? How?â€™
â€˜Of course,â€™ Iris said, grinning. â€˜Weâ€™re very eco-conscious. I attach a lightweight trailer to the back, load it up and off I go.â€™
â€˜In all weathers?â€™ Hope said, with a dubious glance at the rainy street outside.
â€˜Us Yorkshire women are made of stern stuff,â€™ Iris replied. â€˜But weâ€™re practical too â€“ I also have a cosy little Volkswagen van for when the weather is really grim.â€™
Hope was about to say that she was a Yorkshire woman too, although her years in London had worn her accent away, but Brodie stood up abruptly and handed the puzzle box to Will. He checked his watch. â€˜Youâ€™re right â€“ we should probably think about lunch.â€™ He gave the box to Hope. â€˜Thanks for letting her handle it.â€™
â€˜Itâ€™s a shame she didnâ€™t crack the mystery,â€™ Hope said. â€˜Mr Young would have been delighted.â€™
His eyes creased at the edges as he smiled. â€˜Iâ€™m sure weâ€™ll be back.â€™
â€˜Maybe next time, then,â€™ Hope said. â€˜Iâ€™ll have a word with the flamingos too.â€™
It was only after Will and Brodie had made their way back out into the rain, with the umbrella safely in hand, that Hope realized what had been troubling her. In the whole time theyâ€™d been in the shop, sheâ€™d hadnâ€™t heard the little girl make a single sound.
Iris puffed out her cheeks when Hope mentioned Brodieâ€™s silence. â€˜No, she doesnâ€™t speak. Not since the accident.â€™
Cold dread settled in Hopeâ€™s chest. Maybe Will wasnâ€™t newly separated. Maybe it was more awful than that. â€˜The accident,â€™ she repeated slowly.
â€˜The car crash,â€™ Iris said. â€˜Back in February, on the A64. You might remember â€“ the road was closed for the best part of a day.â€™
Hope swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. â€˜I wasnâ€™t living here then.â€™
The florist sighed. â€˜It was terrible, one of those freak accidents that doesnâ€™t seem to be anyoneâ€™s fault. You only needed to glimpse the car to know no one could have survived.â€™
One hand flew to Hopeâ€™s mouth as Iris confirmed her worst fears. â€˜Oh no.â€™
â€˜Brodie was devastated, as youâ€™d expect. Willâ€™s doing his best but it takes time, doesnâ€™t it? I know kids are resilient but thatâ€™s an impossible hole to fill.â€™
Especially when heâ€™d be struggling with the loss of a partner himself, Hope thought as sympathy and pity welled up inside her. It was a miracle he was coping as well as he was; she certainly hadnâ€™t after Robâ€™s death.
â€˜Poor Brodie,â€™ Iris went on, with a sorrowful shake of her head.
â€˜Poor Will too,â€™ Hope said. â€˜He must be grieving as well.â€™
A frown creased Irisâ€™s forehead. â€˜Of course. Losing a brother is awful. But Brodie lost both her parents â€“ Iâ€™m not surprised sheâ€™s retreated into herself.â€
The words crashed over Hope like a wave. Had Iris said Brodie had lost both parents? â€˜But I thought . . . isnâ€™t heâ€”â€™
Iris stared at her for a moment, then slapped her own forehead. â€˜Oh, Iâ€™m an idiot! Of course you assumed Will was Brodieâ€™s dad â€“ why wouldnâ€™t you?â€™
Bewildered, Hope pieced together the evidence. â€˜So heâ€™s her . . . uncle?â€™
â€˜And her closest living relative,â€™ Iris replied. â€˜Or at least, the only one capable of looking after a five-year-old. His mother has dementia, I think, and lives in a care home. And Will is Brodieâ€™s godfather â€“ there was no question of her going anywhere else.â€™
Anywhere else being foster care, Hope guessed, or a distant relative or family friend who were virtual strangers. Another wave of pity swept over her. â€˜That poor girl.â€™
â€˜Yeah,â€™ Iris agreed. â€˜Obviously, itâ€™s been tough for Will too. Itâ€™s not as though heâ€™s got anyone to help him. Imagine going from being a single bloke to a surrogate parent overnight.â€™
While dealing with his own loss too, Hope thought.
Although she could imagine having someone else to care for might help with the grief; plenty of people had suggested she get a puppy or a kitten in the months after sheâ€™d lost Rob but it hadnâ€™t seemed fair when sheâ€™d be out at work every day. A child was another ballgame entirely. The sense of responsibility must be overwhelming.
â€˜He took a shine to you, though,â€™ Iris went on, a smile playing at the corners of her scarlet lips. â€˜And youâ€™re single too. New in town.â€™
Hopeâ€™s face bloomed with sudden heat. â€˜What? Thatâ€™s not true. I mean, yes I am single and new here but he definitely wasnâ€™t . . . he didnâ€™tâ€”â€™
She broke off as Iris threw her a disbelieving look. â€˜Hope. You could have cut the tension between you with that silver letter-opener over there.â€™
â€˜But â€“â€™ Hope flailed in mortified bewilderment, thinking back to the moment Iris had burst into the shop. â€˜But there was no tension â€“ we were chatting about the puzzle box.â€™
â€˜It looked like more than that to me. You were both smiling for a start.â€™ Iris waggled her eyebrows. â€˜Really smiling.â€™
She couldnâ€™t deny that, Hope thought, resisting an urge to fan her overheated cheeks. â€˜Maybe we were,â€™ she said. â€˜But it was on a strictly professional basis.â€™
The other woman nodded. â€˜Iâ€™m sure it was. But even so, I know chemistry when I see it.â€™ She paused to smirk at Hope. â€˜Sexual chemistry.â€™
Hope wanted to crawl under the nearby Edwardian occasional table. Iris was sharp â€“ of course sheâ€™d noticed her admiring Will. She might as well have been projecting an enormous cartoon love heart over her head. â€˜Iâ€™m sure he has enough on his plate at the moment,â€™ she said, hating the stiffness in her voice. â€˜And Iâ€™m not looking for a relationship either.â€™
Instantly, Iris looked contrite. â€˜Ah, Iâ€™m getting carried away â€“ making assumptions. Itâ€™s a weakness of mine â€“ sorry.â€™
Hope took a deep breath and willed her flaming skin to cool down. â€˜Itâ€™s okay. No harm done.â€™
â€˜Good,â€™ Iris said and paused, looking at Hope with a speculative gaze. â€˜If youâ€™re not looking for a relationship, are you at least in the market for making new friends?â€™
â€˜Yes,â€™ Hope said cautiously.
The florist beamed at her. â€˜Great! How do you feel about dancing?â€™
You can buy ‘The Little Shop Of Treasures Part 1’ from Amazon.